Moving On
by kogsy21
Summary: It’s Dean’s final year of high school and John desperately wants to keep things stable enough for Dean to graduate.


**Title**: Moving On**  
Rating**: T**  
Warnings**: None**  
Disclaimer**: I don't own anything.**  
Summary**: It's Dean's final year of high school and John desperately wants to keep things stable enough for Dean to graduate. Stability has never been in the cards for the Winchesters.**  
Author's Notes**: Originally submitted to spn_summergen fanfic exchange on LJ. I've changed a few minor things since then. The prompt was- "Preseries - John coping with being a single dad and having to move the boys when inevitably their ratty clothes and bruises are constantly noticed." Beta'd by the very helpful twivamp92.

This is my first Supernatural fic and I'd love some feedback. Much appreciated!

**Moving On**

_Sunday, April 20, 1997_

John stares down at his sleeping boys. From his perch above their bed, they seem too far away. Last night's drama feels like a month ago, yet the pain etched on the two young faces of his children makes John's heart race as if he is only seconds from losing them.

Taking a slow breath, John raises himself from the armchair and takes a shaky step towards the door, away from the boys, hoping that a little space and a deep breath will calm his heart. Reaching the door frame he grasps it to anchor himself and pauses. Another breath, deep and slow through his nose, and he continues on without looking back into the shadow-filled room.

_5 days earlier  
Tuesday, April 15_

"Dad, I need gym shoes. _Real_ ones."

John Winchester mutters a sharp curse and clenches his teeth in response to his son's expectant words. Sam stands in the doorway of the kitchen, looking both nervous and hopeful at the same time. Releasing his breath, John steels himself for a battle. A battle possibly more tricky than the one he fought last month with the bewitched kitchen appliances two towns over.

"I didn't realize the shoes you have on now were 'pretend' shoes." John raises an eyebrow and stares pointedly at Sam.

Sam's cheeks redden. John isn't sure at first if it's from anger or from… he looks down at Sam's feet for probably the first time all year. The big toe on Sam's right foot is clearly visible, sticking through the worn fabric of the shoe. And then John knows it isn't anger on Sam's cheeks, it's embarrassment.

"I can't run anymore in these, I've tried. My gym teacher keeps mentioning it to me. I can't wear my good boots to gym class. Those are my best shoes, but you-"

"Enough, Sam. You know why we keep those boots separate. I thought we just bought the one's you're wearing not too long ago. What happened to them?" John steels himself again. Their last remaining forty dollars feels oddly heavy in his jean's pocket.

"I, uh…um. These are the ones we got. I've grown out of them. We got them last year," Sam says looking down again.

John sees what he thinks might be an apology forming on Sam's lips. What for? This is his own damn fault. John should have noticed the sorry state of Sam's shoes a long time ago. The kid is growing like a weed.

But John's assumption is wrong. Sam wasn't about to apologize. The direction had changed on his teenage roller coaster of emotion.

"I'm getting made fun of every freakin' day, Dad. It doesn't matter how much I can still beat everyone at anything we do in class, I look like a stupid bum doing it! Geez, it's just a pair of shoes and last month you got Dean-"

"Enough!" John's sharp tone stops Sam's tirade. "We'll get your damn shoes, Sam".

Sam flinches slightly and seems to deflate. Giving the barest of nods, he turns and walks away. John hears the door to the boy's room slam shut.

John folds in on himself for a moment after Sam leaves, hanging his head and pulling at his neck with his hands. "Damn it!" New shoes, even truly needed, would mean money. Decent enough shoes for Sam's daily use means bypassing the normal bargain rack crap that wouldn't last the month and getting something with a decent price tag. The bills in John's pocket were meant to go for some canned slop to make it though the week until after their hunt. Then he could head to a bar the next town over and get a few pool games going. He didn't have time now. He couldn't go out tonight. He had work to do. He had to get ready…

But he _could_ go now. Miss out on sleep again. Research double the next day and still get Sam his shoes so he didn't look like a hobo at school. John had noticed the tear in Sam's t-shirt too. But Sam hadn't asked, and John hadn't offered.

The boys had been enrolled in the same school for almost six months now, one of their longer stints. The main reason for their lingering presence in the small mid-west town was that Dean had only six weeks left until graduation. Dean was going to finish if John had to drag him kicking and screaming to every single class. John was going to see his oldest graduate from high school. Marry would never forgive him for anything less.

Settling down for a while meant that John had to change his ways of handling life. Hunts were now further away to keep out of the local scrutiny of the small town's population. Hunts further away meant being gone for more days at time, or weeks even, as he had to drive further away and research from other places. Dean staying in school during the week – no exceptions – meant doing most of the work himself. Dean and even Sam could assist on weekends. But still, the days were getting longer and longer and John seemed to be about ready to snap most of the time.

But that's what it was going to take to make it through until the summer. Changes, sacrifices, and being careful not to draw attention. They could do it. They had to. The boys might not see the seriousness of their current arrangement, but John felt the weight of it every moment of every day. Staying longer in one place meant no credit card scams for the time being. But they still need enough money to get food – and now shoes – so John is hustling any spare moment. Only out of town, of course, which means more gas. More money for apartments on hunts. More time away from home. More time with the boys alone. Less backup for hunts. Keeping the neighbors from being suspicious. Keeping the teachers from asking too many questions when the boys can't plaster on smiles big enough to mask their ripped shirts and the odd bruising that shows up a little too often.

Staying longer meant making sure Dean got to school every day, not every other day. It meant making sure Sam's expected teenage tirades were handled firmly but not so that John has to silently plead for his dead wife's forgiveness. And then there is the demon. Still out there, somewhere, never far from John's mind.

John stands up slowly from his chair and heads towards his bedroom. He'll shut his eyes for a few minutes. Just a power nap so he can head to the next town over and earn some money. As he sinks into the bed, he rubs at the tightness in his chest and tries to take a deeper breath. Just a few minutes is all he needs, and then he'll get back to it.

Dean hears his father's bedroom door close and the bed springs creak. Good. His father needs all the rest he can get. Dean hasn't missed the stress his dad seemed to be under since moving to this god-forsaken town. He knows most of it is his fault. He needs to finish school. He's 19 and still in school. He hates it, but he knows it's something he's got to do, and he won't let his father down on this one.

Sam lies quietly on the bed next to him, obviously trying to not say something he very much wants to say. Dean is patient and will wait until he can't hold it in any longer. He knows he won't wait long.

"Dean."

"Yeah, runt?"

"I'm almost as tall as you, don't call me runt."

"Whatever. I forget you're almost a full-grown woman now. I can't be calling you a girl anymore. My apologies."

The pillow hits Dean square in the face and he smiles.

"You'll get your shoes, Sammy. Don't worry. Dad will take care of it." Dean says it with so much conviction that Sam realizes that he wants to believe it too, like Dean believes it.

"But-"

"No buts. If he doesn't figure it out, then I will." That's all it takes to shut Sam up.

"Dean?"

"I'm trying to read about some Shakespeare crap here, Sammy. What?" Dean's light tone is an invitation.

"I've liked school this year...a lot." Sam pauses and the air starts to thicken around Dean.

"I think, I, uh, my teachers are starting to talk about classes next year. I know we won't be here and all, but, uh." Sam stops again to gather his thoughts.

"I think high school will be good. I know it will be hard with switching schools and getting along with other kids and stuff, and I don't want to get a swirly, but I know the classes will be good. I really like my history classes, Dean. My History and English teachers are pushing me to sign up for honors and advanced classes. They think I can do it." It comes out as a rush, and Dean can practically hear the thoughts bouncing around Sam's head.

"That's great, Sam. You'll be fine in high school." Dean means it, and Sam knows it. "Besides, getting dunked in the toilet is a rite of passage. I'll do it for you if you want to just get it over with. My pleasure." Dean grinned at him.

Sam grins back and just keeps going. "I know it's a long way away, but Dean, wouldn't it be great if I could take those honors classes and get into a good college? Mrs. Simmons mentioned that-"

"Whoa, dude. Don't get ahead of yourself. It's a long ways off, a lifetime practically." Dean's surprises himself with his own interruption. He didn't realize how much he didn't want Sam to continue until he's already butted in. His heart rate takes off and he doesn't know how to stop it.

"Geez, and you call me dramatic," Dean huffs. Sam doesn't notice the quick flicker of fear on Dean's face.

"I _know_ its four years, it feels like forever, but other kids in my class are already talking about stuff like that. You've got to plan ahead."

Dean concentrates on remaining still.

"Anyway, Mrs. Simmons is going to sit down with me next week and talk about the high school scheduling grid. I won't tell her we're not coming back. But it will be good information. It's cool, Dean. I'm thinking about doubling up on my-"

A returned pillow in the face stops Sam short. "Enough, pipsqueak. I get it. You and your girlfriend will have a nice dinner and plan your future. It will be grand. Lovely. Let me know how it goes." Dean tries to hide inside his sarcasm.

"Whatever, Dean. It will be great. I've already brainstormed some possible career fields to look at with her, and like what kind of classes I'll need and stuff. She says it's never too early to start planning." A loud breath from Dean gets Sam's attention and he looks at Dean. _Really _looks at him.

"Dean. You okay?"

"What? Yeah, sorry this Hamlet dude is more messed up than even you. His sorry ass is the only story I can take tonight. Sorry kiddo. I'll turn off the light when I'm done."

Sam thinks there's more to it than that, but wisely decides to let it go. He'll be able to talk to Dean more later. He'll tell him his plans about how they're both going to get out of here in four years. By then the demon should be gone, and Sam and Dean can get their own lives. Sam's just sorry Dean's going to graduate with hunting still as his only option. But it means he'll wait for Sam to be ready to go. That's the sacrifice his big brother is making for him.

The thought of Sam leaving steals Dean's breath away. It's the first time he's given it any real thought. Sam has made him face that thought now. Dean's happy to snark his way out of the conversation and get his breath back, if he can find where it went. He soon gives up and rolls over and turns out the light.

_Friday, April 18_

Friday night rolls in with a thunderstorm.

"Dean, didn't you have a date with Wendy tonight?" Sam doesn't look up from his book as he asks.

"Uh, she canceled. Yeah, total bitch." Dean keeps his head in his own book as he answers.

John sighs at his son's lie and feels the extra weight of another thirty dollars in his pocket that Dean gave him yesterday. Dean was the consummate actor -'I owe you from that poker game, remember, last month. Never paid you back. Sorry'. Yeah, right, kid. But John took the money anyway. Not looking Dean in the eye when he took the money made it a little easier. John can't think about it any longer. The upcoming hunt is nagging at him.

"Let's review." When the boys' eyes don't rise out of their books, John repeats his demand at twice the volume and books snap shut.

"Dean."

"Yes, sir. Rita Milford, angry spirit, fugly little-"

"Facts, Dean, leave out the embellishments." Dean starts to realize that John is in no mood to – well, in no mood for anything.

"Sorry, sir." It's all business now. "Rita Milford, angry spirit. In 1942 she watched her husband, just back from the war, get killed when they're stopped by a robber on what is now country road 1662. The guy tried to assault her but she was fast and grabbed a lose tool from the back of their truck before he could finish the deed. Got a lucky shot in and proceeded to bludgeon him to death. She spent the next ten years in a psych hospital before being released. She was found dead in the woods near her home. Theory is she wandered off while delirious. Buried in the local cemetery, ironically, off of country road 1662. A man gets killed every five years on the same road. Usually attributed to an auto accident, animal attack, or mysterious blunt force trauma. None of the deaths seem to have connection so no one has picked up on the pattern." Dean finishes, almost bored with his own voice.

"Sam."

"Yes, sir. The next five-year mark is next weekend, so we're taking care of business this weekend. Rita Milford is buried in plot B20, south entrance of the cemetery. Should be intact. No other family in the area who would have taken a token or part that could cause problems later. Salt and burn. No other possible suspects for an angry spirit in the area. Should be simple." Sam thinks it's a no brainer.

"Yeah, well. Every hunt is possibly your last." John ignores Sam flinch at the statement. Dean can do these things in his sleep, but Sam needs more experience. Sam needs to be a better and stronger hunter, to be able to protect himself. John takes that job as seriously as anything else.

"I'll dig with you two taking turns on digging and keeping watch. Sam, check the supplies. Dean, check the shotguns. I'll pack the car tomorrow after lunch. Get some sleep tonight."

"Yes, sir," both boys chime in unison.

John stares a minute longer at the boys before walking to the kitchen to get a drink of water. He just wants to get this job done. Because he had already exhausted hunts within a reasonable distance he can take the few weeks ahead to research and call around and hopefully have a solid lead they can pursue once Dean has walked across that stage.

John tilts his head up a little and his eyes close for a moment. "Just one more, and then we'll take a break. Get Dean on with things. Just…. help us on just one more."

"_Christ_. Take your Midol, Winchester," John tells himself and stands up. "Get a grip." Gulping down the water, he tosses the plastic cup in the sink a little too hard and goes to do just that.

_Saturday night, April 19  
Cemetery_

"Okay, switch." John wipes a sleeve over his face to catch the sweat falling into his eyes and stops digging just long enough to roll his weary shoulders. Sam nimbly pulls himself out of the grave that they are waist deep in and Dean jumps down a beat later, in a well-rehearsed rhythm.

"We're getting close, Sam. Stay sharp."

"Yes, sir." Sam keeps his eyes focused on the surroundings of the overgrown cemetery as Dean and John get to the task of removing the final layer of dirt covering Rita Milford's final resting place.

John gets more nervous with each shovel full of dirt that heads over the side of the grave. Angry spirits aren't anything to mess with. There's a reason they're angry. And Rita had plenty of reasons in her life to be angry. John discovered on a final phone call that Rita had a reputation of lashing out at any male in the psych hospital with a profound hatred that led to several violent altercations. John doubts she'd go down now without as much as a fight as she gave the night her world first fell apart. And he doesn't blame her one bit. But he won't give her an inch of mercy either.

Six months of stability that was hard fought for was on the line. Sacrifices for that stability had taken its toll on each of them. Soon they can move on and get back to their somewhat 'normal' routine of being able to leave a place if needed. Needed if someone took too close a look at the boys' school records, or if someone was taking too close a look at anything, period. But they have to hold out a little while longer. Hopefully longer than Sam's sorry shoes that couldn't even last through the rest of this year's gym class.

John pushes down the guilty feeling that comes up when thinking that he shouldn't feel so happy about being able to uproot his boys and run away when others got too close. That thought should be a bright shiny arrow pointing the way for "Loser Dad", but instead it just gives him a way to deal. A way to cope.

Dean uses the rhythm of shoveling dirt to try and dull the voice in his head that keeps looping the same message: Sam wants to leave. Same wants to move on. Sam has a freakin' plan in place to be gone in four years. He has to get that message to stop because it's just like a song stuck in his head that he was trying so hard to get out but it only got worse.

A strange alignment of the stars happened in the space between two breaths. John and Dean Winchester let their minds wander just enough that they both miss the drop in temperature. They both miss the moment the crickets go silent. And Sam Winchester just happens to be peering deeply into one far corner of darkness in the cemetery, while Rita Milford swings a ghostly yet very solid crowbar into the back of his head from the other direction.

The world comes into sharp focus for Dean when Sam thuds to the ground. "Sammy!" Dean drops his shovel and vaults himself over the side of the grave in one smooth motion. Picking up the shotgun that is still in Sam's slack grip he aims it at the haze that is Rita Millard and fires quickly. He doesn't wait to see the last specks of her scatter before he is on the ground beside Sam.

John takes it all in and does what he's programmed to do. Finish the job. His chest is suddenly tight again but he puts all he has into slamming the shovel into the ground one more time. iClunk/i. He's hit the top. Frantically, he attacks the final layer that lies between him and finishing off this bitch. "Come on…_come on!_"

Dean is bent close to Sam on the ground, gripping his face. "Shit, Sammy. Come on, kid, wake up!"

"Stay sharp, Dean. She's still out there and she's vicious. I…have to….finish this. Get me the salt." John pants as he's putting everything he has into breaking the lid of the coffin.

Dean keeps one hand on his brother's shoulder and reaches for the supply bag with the other. He keeps his eyes trained into the dark while reaching blindly for the familiar canisters and tossing them to his Father. Having to put down the gun in order to do this was all the opening that Rita needed.

As the last bottle leaves Dean's hand Rita materializes and swings the crow bar in a dramatic arc into Dean's face. Dean doesn't see it coming and is heaved backward, sailing into the next available obstacle -a concrete tombstone. His back hits with enough force to crack the stone and Dean is out cold before his body settles to the ground.

John thinks Rita must have stolen the air from around him because he can no longer breathe. All he can do is watch as his hands take on a life of their own and finish the task before him without hesitation. His mind is frozen with the picture of his two boys laying on the ground before him, yet his body keeps moving to do what it knows has to be done in order to stop the madness around him. He barely registers pulling himself out of the grave before lighting a match and watching the hole in the ground roar with flames. A shriek fills the air as Rita's spirit succumbs to the power of the salt and flames.

John's knees give out and he ends up on the ground next to Sam, hands expertly flying over the boy's slack features. Sam's out cold, but he's breathing fine. There's a growing lump and a cut, but his skull's intact. Checking his pulse, John finds it's steady. Pulling off his flannel shirt, he wads it up under the gash on Sam's head, and lifts himself as quickly as he can to get to Dean.

Dean's face is turned away, his back to John as he approaches. "Oh, god...just…_please_." John doesn't know who he's praying to anymore. And no one ever seems to be listening.

A deep groan comes from Dean and he rolls himself over before John is even there. The moan becomes a sharp cry as Dean realizes that moving isn't a good idea. John quickly assesses the broken skin and already blackening marks on Dean face. Possible broken nose, cheekbone, and concussion. He'll need stitches to put his face back together. John's hands move down Dean's body. John knows that given the state of the headstone he's got possible broken ribs, bruising, and they're totally screwed if it's any more than that. Internal bleeding would mean a hospital.

"Come on, kiddo. I know it hurts but we gotta go." John hates this part. Dean isn't cooperating. "On your feet, Dean, now!" John struggles with Dean's sluggish movements and knows that the blow to the head was fierce. All of Rita's rage met Dean's head full on. The pained sounds coming from Dean are causing that tightness in John's chest to intensify.

"Damn it. Just hang on, keep your feet moving, Dean. You have to get to the car first, then I have to get Sam." Pulling out the right cards at the right time is important. "Sammy's waiting for help. Come on, Dean. Just a little more."

John has to carry Dean the last ten feet to the car, but it was close enough. Carrying Sam is a shock to John's system. The kid seems to have gained several inches and pounds while John wasn't looking. Which was most of the time.

John pushes the Impala to its limits on that country road. "Hang on, boys. We're gonna be okay. Just…we're gonna be okay."

_Sunday, April 20_

John stares down at his boys once again. Failing in his efforts to sleep, he has come back to take up his vigil. It's not only Rita Milford or any demon out there that has tried or is trying to take them away. It's time. Money. The pressure of 'real' life that won't allow them to be who they need to be, to take care of his family in the only way John can handle.

Tomorrow there will be phone calls to make. School records to pull and pack up for the next place. John is sure that the high school counselor will put up some sort of fight given Dean's proximity to graduation. Little does she know that John has been fighting for his boys since the day they were born and she doesn't stand a chance. John takes a deep but silent breath. They have to go. Their injuries will draw attention. Dean's face is a mess; he won't be going out in public any time soon. School's done for him. They can't afford it. Dean will understand. Sam might understand someday. They've all had to sacrifice along the way.

The tightness in his chest is still there. John wonders if it will fade once they reach the next place. He hopes it does. Perhaps Sam will feel well enough before they go to make a stop at the mall for a new pair of gym shoes. John smiles a little at that. He would like that. Then he realizes that Sam will probably only use them a few weeks, then grow out of them over the summer before starting the next school year. Maybe it's not worth it.

John settles back against the wall nearest him and closes his eyes. No prayer on his lips this time. Just needs to rest his eyes. The day tomorrow will bring is enough trouble of it's own. He'll rest for now.

The End

Please share your thoughts!


End file.
